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Chaos and Compassion, a Collection

By Jennifer Thompson

American Terrier

“American terrier” is a way to say “pit bull”without startling bourgeoisie people.Neither captures Julia’s deep sweetness.She is two years old, compact, muscledwith a sleek silver coat and amber eyesthat track you anxiously.Walking Julia is like trailing a handful of balloons.Waitresses bring her special dishesbartenders snap her picture as she sits neatlyon a barstool between you and me.

Months ago, the first timethe three of us went out for dinneryou let me hold her while you went to the men’s room.She waited anxiously for your returnvibrating and whining, shifting to catch a glimpse of you.A flock of cooing lesbians gathered, eager to pet her.She licked them with a distant cordialitybut your absence restrained her.

She decided I was one of her people before you didand now she bounces with glee 50 yards outthen hurls herself against my shinsin an ecstasy of welcome.I am cool, inexpressive, prone to seeonly threats and opportunitiesbut Julia shames me into humanity.

I pet her idlypress my face against her sleek ribs.“Pit bulls are so sweet!How could anyone get them to fight?”You smile at my mistake.“They will fight viciously and to the deathbecause they are eager to please.Pit bulls will do anything for their people.That’s how assholes train them.”You cut yourself off therestroke her sweet facetilted towards youlooking for cues and approval.

I cannot help but thinkof the picture you sent me of yourselfin your Air Force uniformhighly decorated, painfully youngready to plunge into any pitand fight viciouslyfor your people.

—Jennifer Thompson7/12/15

Safe Separation

One night long ago I woke knowingthat a man had stepped into my bedroom.I could not see him when I flicked the lamp onbut he wore a gray overcoatand his face was carefully blank.After that I could not sleepbecause each time I closed my eyeshe stepped forwardand his shadow fell across my face.

The man in my dream does not looklike anyone who hurt me.

The first time we had dinner, you insistedon driving me two blocks to my car.You cleared the passenger sideby tossing your gray overcoat into the back seat.Soon after, when we were aloneyou fumbled at your belt in hasteyour shoulders blotted out the lightand you lost yourself within me.

When you lay your hands heavy on meI open in your shadow.

On another occasionbefore dropping me off in a predawn parking lotyou swung your Hummer aroundplaying the headlights over each bush and shadow.You waited until my car startedthen followed me out.As I paused to make my turnI saw in my rear view mirror that you had pulled overto question a man wearing a gray overcoat.The tinted windshield blurred your features.The brim of his hat shaded his face.A gap appeared in traffic. I pulled away.

I am not afraid of beastsconcealed in a dark landscape.

Imagine an F/A-18, a poorly tamed canisterfor blending fuel, oxidizer and flamearmed with an AIM-9X Sidewinder.The missile’s smooth skinis packed with lethal treats:booster, igniter, propellant;fuze, safe-and-arm, warhead.When the mated raptors separateand the little bird shrieks to lifesurges ahead, peels off at a fantastic angleits first duty is to leave its jet and pilot cleanly.This is called safe separation.

The man in my dream does not looklike anyone who hurt me.

When you lay your hands heavy on meI open in your shadow.

I am not afraid of beastsconcealed in a dark landscape.

More than anything I have neededmen to leave peacefully, refrainingfrom ripping me apart upon detonation.More than anything, I have soughtsafe separation.

Jennifer Thompson12/11/14

War Stories: Afghanistan

He is trying to tell a story,in this case, out loud, to mewhile sitting at the barin the lobby of Hotel Congress.The law caught up with Dillinger here.Wyatt Earp gunned someone downacross the street, but that’s trueof most Arizona train stations.The cool scent of adobe soothes us.The bartender withdraws.

He says:“A friend of mine got in trouble about Guantanamo —how prisoners were being treated there.”

I know not to ask the identity of the friendand in any case, I can guess.I’ve read the subcommittee reportsand I know that treatment and its troubleas well as anyone canwho hasn’t poured waterinto the hollow pool made by a ragstretched over a prisoner’s mouthas well as anyone canwho has not been trained to ration breathaccept what little is given —to resist scores of known techniquesto break the mindthrough the body’s needs.

He starts again:“A psychiatrist came in and ran tests on everyone.He told me,You are all balanced between good and evil.You could go either way.Anything could push you.”

In the moment it seems that this is worsethan anything that could follow:the words good and evil in the mouth of a doctorwho forges soldiers, sailors and airmeninto human racks and screws.

He says:“Some people are just good.They go to work every daypay their taxesgo home at night.”

I go to work every daytry to be kindpay my taxesgo home at night.He slaughters the innocent and washes his handshangs himself after earning his silver.Come to think of it, so do I.This is why forgiveness and redemption existand why war never ends.

He tries one last time:“They shot at us, so we shot back.I knew we were the white knights coming inbringing people home.”

It’s a simple mental switchto turn a dirty war into the Apocalypseeasiest for those of uswho go to work every daypay our taxesgo home at night.Harder for those trainedto break the the body of an enemyor accept a breaking in turn.I find no fault with this just man.I wish this cup would pass.I don’t know whose willis being done herebut it is not his or mine.

He sits with his back to the wallscans everyone who passes the picture window.Gray hair cut shortstubblenondescript clothing.He is deeply tiredand has settled at this level of habitualtolerable anguish.Behold the man!

Now I will stop and ask:Is this what you wanted?Is this what you came to see?

I tell him:“They choose you because you can do it.You are a person who likes that pivotwho needs that feeling of tipping.It’s not weakness or diseasejust a set of qualities they needed.They looked until they found you.”I swallow the dregs of wine warm in my glass.We both have flights to catchand customers to satisfy.

He says:“The whole Middle East is fuckedand now they’re sending people into Yemennew parts of Africa.How does it end?What do you do?”

These are rhetorical questionsand I am not a war goddess or priestbut since I’m here, I answer:“In yoga, when war breaks outwe do 108 sun salutations at dawn.You go to an open place, face east.The number is supposed to be significant.”

“Why do you do that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just what you do.I like to do the things that people have always done.It takes about 45 minutesand I figure, that’s 45 minuteswhen I’m not doing anything stupid.”

His hand drifts to my thigh.Soon we will find comfort doingwhat people have always done:holding on to a long, sweet momentrefraining from active harm.

—Jennifer Thompson10/26/14

After Junger:What Kills MeMakes Me Incredibly Strong

Me, bitching about someone at work:“I go to yoga so that I don’t kill people like thatand end up in the Big House.”You, mild, curious:“Why are you always talking about killing people?”Me, with a crack of rude laughter:“This from the guy who kept threateningto pull out his Glock at dinner and open firebecause the live music sucked. You said it three times.”You: “True. But I don’t kill peoplebecause they piss me off.Killing and emotion are two separate things.It’s business.” Then, refining your pointbut also escalating a joke:“I’ll kill you because my breakfast is getting coldand I don’t have time to fuck around.”Me, laughing hard: “That’s a hell of a lot scarier.”You, without pride or shame, just ruefully:“Oh, yeah, it is.”

That night you shouted in your sleepand sprung from bednaked and battle-readydrenched in adrenaline.You woke when your feet hit the floorexcused yourself abruptly, not ashamedbut needing privacy.When you came back,still a bit lost in the vulnerability of sleepyou said, “Wow. Sorry about that.I dreamt we were being attacked.”“No worries. It happens.”You lay down. I kissed your neckran my palm down your backstill damp and a bit tense.After a time, we slept again.

That’s what I meant when I saidI wanted to get to know you better.Not some Prince Charming cobbled upand held together briefly, with effortbut the guy who remarked offhandedly“You know, we have a pit bull and a gunI think we can skip locking the gate”the guy who trades dirty priest jokes with mebut also has a patron saint.

Most of all, you didn’t make a solemn facewhen I said that I was raped:“Oh, I’m so sorry you had to go through that”and then treat me like a poor wounded thing.You know better than to thinkthat shit weakened me.Scar tissue is tougherand I’m strongestwhere I brokeand was forced to mend.

Jennifer Thompson received her Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from the University of California, Irvine. She dutifully published parts of her dissertation and a fair amount of poetry. As a result, a collection called Naming God is still available from BlazeVox Press, while a limited edition artist's book, The World of Stone, wound up in various collections, including that of the University of Sterling, Scotland. She completed two post docs, then left a tenure-track position as Assistant Professor of Humanities at Embry-Riddle University, thereby freeing herself to find true job satisfaction as a test engineer. Evenings and weekends she collects art and poses for artists, raises chickens, harvests water, teaches Vinyasa yoga, and schemes to get additional tattoos.

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